


Retribution

by spacesix



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Introspection, Leon-centric, Past Violence, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whump, everyone else tagged and untagged are just mentions or sides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacesix/pseuds/spacesix
Summary: Maybe it was his way of accepting that all those deaths he’d caused had been in vain and that all that loss of precious life had been for abso-fucking-lutely nothing, because he’d flunked his way through every step of it and that his one life was somehow penance enough to pay back all of theirs, even though he knew it wasn’t worth near enough.He looked down, and suddenly he felt sick.
Kudos: 13





	Retribution

Leon closed the door to his apartment with a sigh, leaning back heavily against it and closing his eyes. He stayed there for a moment, just to let himself breathe in the dark stillness. What a fucking operation, he thought to himself, scrubbing a hand down his face, what a fucking shit show more like. He slapped the wall next to him in an effort to turn on the lights and grimaced when they flickered on overhead.

His paychecks could afford a good amount of things, and the hazard bonus he got from being sent abroad on a BOW op made it even cushier, but a nice apartment wasn’t something he’d ever indulge himself in. He was only one guy after all, and it wasn’t like he or anyone else was here very often with his work and all. Hell, the most expensive thing he’d ever bought for himself was the nice leather jacket that he’d gotten to wear for all of a year before he lost it in bumfuck nowhere Spain. Everything else that wasn’t for rent or food was stashed away in savings.

Still, his place wasn’t bad. He walked around through each room, flicking on the lights to disperse any lingering shadows as he went. It was small and free of mold, his plants had plenty of windows, maybe it was tidy to the point of feeling a little sterile, but that was kind of the point – easy to clean when he went away, easy to clean if he didn’t make it back.

His movements became more mechanical as his rounds steered him to the bathroom, his thoughts, still muddled by the comedown of being back home, quickly jumping down that particular rabbit hole. He stripped, dropping his clothes into the hamper before getting into the shower, not bothering to let it warm in the slightest. The frigid water leaving him numb meant that he wouldn’t have to feel the bruises and marks mottling his skin. The tightness in his chest from the cold that left him gasping for breath meant that he was still alive. He told himself that the rattling of the hot water in the old pipes would have given him a headache anyway.

He stumbled his way out after scrubbing himself pink, stopping in front of the mirror to chance a look at himself while he dried off. He cringed inwardly at the sight.

His hair was dull and overgrown, roots halfway grown out but the brown dye remaining resilient. The bags under his eyes had bags from far too many nights with far too much stress and too little sleep. His entire left side was black and blue as if he had been hit by a bus, which, to be fair, he kinda had. The railroads of scars dotting his ribs down his hips and thighs stood out in stark contrast to them, stark contrast to everything really. Everyone who’d stepped foot in their world of operation had their fair share of scars to tell stories about, and Leon was no exception. Except these were all too perfect, too new and continuous to be anything but human made. He sighed again. It didn’t matter where they came from, just what they meant, and that they remained out of sight.

It was a good thing his body had grown out of the instinct to shiver after his showers.

He opened the cupboard and pulled out his shaving kit, pushing his disposable razors to the side to reach the nicer thing at the bottom of the bag. It was beautiful; much better quality than anything he would have thought to splurge on, if he was being honest. Hollow ground steel, ever sharp with the care he took of it, with fine little etches lilting along the curved wooden handle along with some fancy French name he maybe could have pronounced with mediocre accenting back in high school. He unfolded it gently.

He tried and tried again to divorce the fact it had been a gift from Sherry after they’d met again out of the blue in Lanshiang, when she told him that scruffy and unkempt and sort of facial hair in general maybe was a terrible look on him. Even if their introduction had been nearly ten years ago at that point, she’d always like that shy and determined but so, so naïve version of him the best.

He pushed the thought away and backed up against the opposing wall, sliding down to sit against it with his legs out in front of him. Taking a steadying breath, he brought the sharp of the blade to his skin, adding meticulously to the pattern.

One for every soldier and partner he and Chris had been in charge of who didn’t get to go home at the end of the mission like they’d been able to.

One for their families, too, who would likely never even get an answer as to where their loved ones had been deployed, much less if they coming back (they weren’t).

He guessed at one for every some hundred civilians who had lost everything entirely.

The one for one deal on them would have left him dead and done years ago.

He wondered which of his friends would be the ones to pack up and find places for the rest of his shit, or if they would even find out about his death before the Service swept in and wiped him away. Some morbid part of him hoped they would be there, that they’d figure out the little puzzle boxes he had given them last Christmas and get the spare keys to his place that were hidden within. Chris hated puzzles, but Claire liked them. Sherry too, but Leon couldn’t stand the idea of her being the one to walk in one day by herself, so her box just had a new locket.

Shit, he didn’t want to think about Sherry. How she’d cry when she heard she wasn’t going to see him again. How she’d hate him for abandoning her and betraying every promise he’d made her.

Maybe he should take Hunnigan’s advice and put in for some time off.

He laughed dryly at the thought – their commander would never agree, Leon was too valuable a weapon. He did feel bad that it forced his handler to keep working year-around too, though. She deserved better.

He thought back at what could been different if things hadn’t just kept going to shit after Raccoon City.

He and Claire had been walking for days after escaping, just trying to find the next city and hopefully a ride along the way and anything at all to eat or drink. What little they had they’d given to Sherry, the little girl too drained after the first day to argue that they needed it too. They’d resorted to taking turns carrying her after she got too shaky to keep up with them, despite their own exhaustion and the strain on their wounds. Needless to say, it had been nothing short of godsend when a helicopter that had been flying over their heads suddenly turned around and dropped into a land a little ways away from them.

The woman that popped out of the back seemed to recognize Claire, and Claire her, and the two had embraced firmly. She and the man who was piloting the chopper had more reservations about him despite Claire’s affirmations, and to be honest, he was on their side. After the shit he’d just seen, he wouldn’t have trusted some strange, grimy kid flushed from an obviously infected shoulder wound and carrying and carrying an equally strange, grimy, barely conscious twelve year old either; not even if the president himself had backed them up.

They’d all been allowed to board anyway, thankfully, because minutes after they were airborne again, the plot of land that was once Leon’s new home disappeared from the map.

Leon sat quietly in the seat next to Claire as they flew for what felt like hours, Sherry asleep between them. She was talking to the new lady – Jill – both women shooting glances at him when they thought he was too zoned-out to notice – Claire’s worried, and Jill’s suspicious bordering on contemptuous – but the brightest smile he’d seen on her yet decorating her face when Jill mentioned that they were on their way to rendezvous with her brother a state over.

He smiled ruefully when he thought back to his first meeting with Chris, about how the man had made a beeline past him for Claire and Sherry and hugged them and made sure they were okay before even noticing him, how he’d turned around and taken one look at him before this look of _understanding_ had come across his face and hugged him too for keeping his sister safe (despite his protests that she’d done fine by her own self) – and then promptly dragged them all to medical.

He thought about how Chris had told Jill off in the middle of the doctor’s office, the muzzle of her pistol burning a hole above his left eyebrow as Claire and Sherry watched the exchange in wide-eyed horror and the nurses practically mummified him in antiseptic and stitches and gauze.

He thought about later that night, when the man had kicked in the door of Leon’s room and yanked away the gun pressed under his chin and held him as he cried and shook and threw up on himself in a panic, convinced that Jill had been right and that he needed to be put down before he could become one of those _things_.

He thought about the next morning, when Chris had been gone along with Claire and Jill and pilot Carlos, leaving him and Sherry with just a phone number and a shoddy explanation written on a hotel napkin and pamphlets for STARS-promoted therapy and psychiatry offices.

And just like that morning, Chris wasn’t here now. There wasn’t anyone who would stop him, who would call a 5150 on his stupid ass and add a mark on the growing record that called for his removal from duty.

Chris was with his family, like he should be, like he needed to be. Leon had made sure of it, offering to carpool them after they all got off the plane and seeing him and Claire all the way to the door of their apartment to make sure they got inside and settled safely before returning to his own. Those two had their own traumas, more than he ever could or wanted to imagine, but they had each other and their friends and their doctors to confide in when they needed them. That was good, Leon nodded, they deserved that.

His hand slipped.

He looked down; hissed at the twinge of pain that finally came; swore at the mark that was too deep, too out of line, too long to match the rest.

Suddenly the blood staining his hands wasn’t his own.

It was Branagh’s.

It was the Birkins’.

It was Ada’s.

It was Luis’.

It was Deborah’s.

It was Adam’s.

It was tens and hundreds of thousands of innocent, unarmed, untrained, unwarned civilian men and women and children and mothers and fathers and grandparents and students and friends and families and lovers and _people_ who had no idea what they were being used as cannon fodder for and who trusted him to save them and who died because of it. Twice.

It would have been Ashley’s and Sherry’s and Helena’s and Jake’s and Chris’s too if others hadn’t stepped in and his luck wasn’t far greater than someone like him should have been given.

Maybe this was just his way of adding his name to the list, or of tempting fate, or of going back in time and wishing that that infection he had the first night of all this crap was the real deal and had taken him early.

Maybe it was his way of accepting that all those deaths he’d caused had been in vain and that all that loss of precious life had been for abso-fucking-lutely nothing, because he’d flunked his way through every step of it and that his one life was somehow penance enough to pay back all of theirs, even though he knew it wasn’t worth near enough.

He looked down, and suddenly he felt sick.

He hadn’t realized he’d been squeezing the blade side of the razor as he was wallowing in his self pity, and now he had blood dripping from his fingers. Fuck – it was his right hand too – his shooting hand. Now not only would it be a bitch to care for, located right against the base of his fingers, but even if he could hide the bandages it would be obvious to everyone that his weapons handling wasn’t on par if he got called in.

He stood up shakily, letting the razor clatter noisily to the ground as he shuffled the few steps to the sink and braced himself on the counter. There was a certain calm that came with cleaning himself up. It wasn’t soothing, it wasn’t peaceful, and it wasn’t good, but it was calm. As he turned on the tap and let the water rinse his hand, he breathed.

Sooner rather than later he’d have to suck it up and dig out the rags and peroxide and rolls of dressing and the bleach to clean the tile, but for now, blessedly cold and numb and his mind quieted, he breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> This is a tiny bit a vent fic while working with figuring out Leon for future stuff so apologies for messing with canon just a tad in order to write this.


End file.
